If My (future) Husband Doesn’t Think About Me When Cover Me Up Is On, He’s Not The One.

simon ghost riley listening to let down by radiohead on repeat after you pass away.

you are not hard to love. you're not "too different" to be loved. you're not "too ugly", "too fat", "too weird", or anything else. the right people will love you because of everything you are, not despite of things. you're worthy of that love, and it'll come to you soon.

you are not hard to love.

the vibe i crave in case any of you care 𐙚. ݁₊⋆˖°

all about mobility

what is mobility & how is it different from flexibility?

mobility is the ability of the joints to move through their full range of motion, while flexibility is the ability of the muscles to temporarily stretch.

why do mobility training?

there are many different benefits of mobility training, including:

increased flexibility

reduced risk of injury

improving joint & muscle health

improving range of motion

improving posture

gaining muscle strength

balance & stability

reducing pain & stiffness in the body

when should i start?

now! there’s a common misconception that you shouldn’t need mobility training until you are in your later years and your mobility starts to decline, but mobility training is useful no matter your age. in fact, the sooner you start, the less mobility & joint problems you will experience as you age.

how often should i train mobility?

mobility training is safe and beneficial to do daily, but ideally, you should try to train mobility at least 5 times per week for at least 5-10 minutes each time.

routines:

10 minute mobility workout by growingannanas

10 minute mobility for neglected joints by julia.reppel

15 minute daily mobility routine by julia.reppel

15 minute mobility stretch by growingannanas

20 minute slow mobility & stretch by julia.reppel

20 minute full body mobility warm up by leanbeefpatty

20 minute spinal mobility by julia.reppel

20 minute mobility workout by julia.reppel

20 minute rest day mobility flow by julia.reppel

20 minute pilates x mobility by julia.reppel

20 minute full body mobility by julia.reppel

25 minute full body stretch & mobility by madfit

25 minute mobility workout by julia.reppel

25 minute yoga for mobility by jess yoga

25 minute rest day mobility by julia.reppel

25 minute low impact mobility workout by julia.reppel

25 minute mobility workout by marie steffen

30 minute full body primal mobility by julia.reppel

30 minute primal mobility workout by julia.reppel

30 minute mobility yoga for athletes by charlie follows

30 minute beginner-friendly mobility flow by julia.reppel

30 minute mobility workout by fitness__kaykay

30 minute active recovery workout by heather robertson

30 minute core strength & shoulder mobility by heather robertson

35 minute yoga fusion workout by heather robertson

40 minute mobility & dynamic stretching by heather robertson

40 minute abs & hip mobility by heather robertson

40 minute core strength & back mobility by heather robertson

40 minute core strength & mobility by heather robertson

40 minute core & shoulder mobility by heather robertson

40 minute abs & mobility by heather robertson

44 minute core & full body mobility by heather robertson

nasty old dog

SIMON "GHOST" RILEY x FEM!READER

summary silent, broody...how can you resist your mysterious older neighbour?

warnings fluff-ish, age gap (early 20s, late 30s), nsfw (smut), bad brain-rotted writing

a/n heh......send requests pls

masterlist

the first time you meet him, he’s standing at your front door in full tactical gear.

not just a vest or boots—everything. black from head to toe, a skull-print balaclava covering most of his face. there’s a duffel slung over one shoulder, and your parcel in his hand.

you freeze.

he doesn’t say anything at first—just stares at you. and then, quietly, almost too quiet to hear:

“this came to mine.”

you take the box slowly, fingers brushing the gloves he hasn’t taken off. your eyes flick to his—dark, heavy-lidded, with a hint of tiredness that makes something twist in your chest.

“…thanks,” you manage, trying not to sound nervous.

he nods once and turns without another word. just disappears into the apartment across the hall like this is normal. like he’s normal.

you close the door and stand there for a long moment.

“…what the hell.”

—

you tell yourself not to be weird about it. but every time you see him—taking out the trash, coming back from a run, carrying enough groceries for a family of five—you get more and more curious.

there’s something about him. the way he’s always alone. how he never quite makes eye contact. how your cat likes to sit by the front door, ears perked, tail twitching, every time his boots echo down the hallway—like she knows exactly when he’s coming home.

he’s strange. broody. definitely hiding something.

so of course you bake cookies.

and occasionally leave them on his doorstep.

because you're a nice neighbour!

because you’re nosy. and maybe a little reckless.

and because god help you, your mysterious neighbour is hot.

—

at first, it's subtle. a soft nod when you pass by each other in the hallways, and even an occasional gruff "mornin'" from the man.

simon doesn’t exactly do small talk—but he starts remembering your name, starts holding the lobby door open a little longer when your arms are full of groceries. he even helps you carry them once. gruff, silent, but his hand wraps fully around the handle of your tote bag like it weighs nothing.

there’s a moment, that day. where your fingers brush his. and he flinches—not from you, but from himself. like he wasn’t expecting how warm you’d feel. how soft your hands were, untouched by the horrors of the world.

then it’s a sticky note.

you find it one night, stuck on your fridge in all caps, scrawled with a heavy hand:

“FIXED YOUR SINK. STOP USING THE DUCT TAPE.”

you don’t even know how he got in—must’ve used the spare key you gave your building’s maintenance guy. you leave a tupperware of cookies on his doorstep the next day. he doesn’t say anything, but a week later, your broken curtain rod is magically fixed too, and your empty tupperware sits on your kitchen counter.

and somehow, this becomes your thing.

he drops by after missions—always late at night, always quiet. you never ask questions. he never offers answers. but he shows up with oil stains on his shirt and shadows under his eyes, and you let him in, let him rest. you even start cooking bigger portions, just so he'll have some home-cooked food to eat when he drops by at night. you don't ask questions, you don't say anything. you just give him some food as he tugs off his skull balaclava.

sometimes he falls asleep on your couch, jaw slack, brow still furrowed like he’s expecting a fight even in sleep. other times, he just… sits with you. watches whatever’s on the tv without a word. you talk. he listens. and every now and then, when you say something funny or dumb or weird, the corner of his mouth twitches. barely noticeable. but it’s there.

eventually you get comfortable with him. you curl up against him during movie nights, head resting on his chest. his arm rests on the back of the sofa behind you. his hand doesn't wrap around your shoulder. he makes sure there's some sort of distance between him and the little young thing sitting beside him.

you learn he likes his tea strong. that he only takes sugar when he’s had a rough day. that he reads, sometimes, when he can’t sleep. that he has a soft spot for your cat, even if he pretends to ignore her—pretends not to notice when she curls up beside his boots. (you even catch him smiling at her once, but you pretend not to notice)

you start to learn the rhythm of him. the little ways he says “i care” without ever saying it at all.

eventually, you stop pretending he’s just your neighbour.

but he doesn’t.

he keeps his distance, even as he inches closer. never lets himself touch you for too long. never stays the night, no matter how late it gets. you catch the way he looks at you sometimes—like he wants something he doesn’t think he should want.

he’s careful. too careful. because you’re bright and soft and still figuring things out. and he’s lived a thousand lives in the dark, each one heavier than the last.

and maybe that’s why it nearly breaks something in you when one night, after a silence stretched too long, he just says it.

quietly. like he’s scared he’ll ruin it.

“i sleep better here.”

you don’t say anything. just reach for his hand and squeeze. and this time, he doesn’t pull away.

—

and one day, he comes back more broken than usual.

you can see it in the set of his shoulders, the way he lingers in the doorway like he’s debating whether or not he should’ve even come. his jaw is tight. his knuckles are bruised. and when he finally steps inside, he doesn't say a word—just drops his gear by the door, like always, and sinks onto your couch like gravity's finally gotten the best of him.

you sit beside him, quiet. you let the silence stretch.

until you finally ask, “si, are you okay?”

he doesn’t answer right away. just stares ahead, breathing deep, like your soft little apartment is the only thing keeping him tethered.

“had to do lotsa' things i didn’t wanna' do,” he mutters eventually. voice low. rough. “a lot more than usual.”

your hand finds his and you squeeze. your grip is gentle. grounding. “you’re home now.”

he turns to look at you then. and there’s something in his eyes that makes your breath catch—something sharp, haunted. but under it… there’s hunger too. not just for you, but for the comfort you bring. for the peace he only finds in your presence.

and maybe that’s what makes you brave.

maybe that’s why you shift closer, crawl gently into his lap, hands bracing on his broad shoulders. you feel the way his body tenses beneath you, the way he swallows hard when your fingers ghost along the back of his neck.

“let me take care of you,” you whisper.

“sweetheart…” he warns, already shaking his head.

you start grinding down on him a little, just to test the waters. but his hands come to your waist. but they don’t push. they just hold. “you don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“i do,” you murmur, leaning in so your lips ghost along his jawline. “i know exactly what i want. i want you, si."

his breath stutters. you press a kiss just below his ear. his grip around you tightens into somewhat of a hug.

“don’t do this,” he says, but his voice is wrecked. you notice the slightest tremble in his hands and voice. barely noticeable to anyone else, but you can feel it.

“why not?” you whisper. “i know you want me too.”

“you’re young.” he finally says it. the thing that’s been sitting heavy between you both.

“you’ve got your whole damn life ahead of you. you shouldn’t be wasting it on some old bastard who drags death with him wherever he goes.”

“i’m not wasting anything,” you whisper, pulling back. you look into his eyes and your hands come up to hold each side of his head. “i’m choosing you, you old dog. doesn’t that count for something?”

and it’s like that finally breaks him.

because the next thing you know, his mouth is on yours—desperate, almost angry, like he’s been trying to hold himself back for months and he just can’t anymore. his hands grip your hips tight, dragging you closer, like he’s trying to memorize the feel of you in his lap.

and when he kisses you again, it’s not hesitant. it’s hungry.

his lips are hot, almost feverish against yours, and you can feel the desperation in every movement. his hands are everywhere—palming your hips, sliding beneath your shirt to feel the warm curve of your waist, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

and you? you just melt for him.

you thread your fingers through his short crop of hair, tugging gently, and he groans low in his throat. you whisper his name, over and over, like a prayer, like something sacred. and it's music to his ears.

“fuck,” he breathes against your mouth, “you don’t know what you do to me, sweet girl.”

but you do.

you feel it in the way he grinds up into you, slow and controlled, like he’s still trying to restrain himself even now. like he doesn’t want to hurt you. like he wants to worship you.

you pull back just enough to look at him—his eyes are dark, pupils blown, lashes fluttering as he blinks up at you with something close to reverence.

“i want all of you, si,” you whisper. “please.”

his jaw clenches, like he’s fighting every instinct to be good, to be safe, to keep distance. but you see the moment he gives in. the moment he realises you’re not afraid of him. you want him. all of him.

he stands with you in his arms, effortless, and carries you to your bedroom. he lays you out so gently you nearly cry. and when he finally takes off your clothes, it's like unwrapping something precious—his touch is rough in places, but careful where it matters.

“you’re so fuckin’ soft,” he murmurs, dragging his mouth along your collarbone, “so goddamn perfect.”

your fingers fumble with the hem of his shirt, and he helps you pull it over his head. you take a moment, just looking at him—all scars and strength and something broken that only you ever get to see.

“you’re beautiful,” you say, and his breath hitches.

he kisses you like you’re the only thing that’s ever made him feel alive. like the war stops when your mouth is on his.

and when he finally slides into you, it's slow. unbearably slow. you feel every inch of him, the stretch, the fullness, the way his breath stutters when you moan his name. but he fits perfectly. like he's the puzzle piece you've been searching for. like this was meant to be.

one hand toys with your nipple while the other rubs soft circles on your clit.

he’s whispering things between gritted teeth—“that’s it, sweetheart,” “so good f'me,” “i’ve got you”—his voice like gravel and honey in your ear.

and when he finally loses the last bit of restraint, it’s devastating—his rhythm picking up, hips snapping into yours, his forehead pressed to yours as he groans your name like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

"f-fuck si—oh yeah right there—oh!" your moans are almost pornographic, only spurring simon on as he picks up his pace. faster, deeper, and soon you feel the familiar warmth in your belly as your stomach coils.

you fall apart beneath him, trembling, gasping, held together only by his arms around you and the heat of his breath against your cheek. your walls tighten around him, squeezing him. and soon he follows with a low, broken sound and your name on his lips like a plea.

he spills deep inside you, your walls milking him for all that he is.

and then it’s quiet.

his body curled around yours, still catching his breath as he pulls out of you. your fingers tracing lazy circles along his chest. his thumb brushing soft over your waist like he can’t stop touching you, like he doesn’t want to.

you feel his lips press into your hair as he mutters, barely audible:

“don’t know what i ever did to deserve you.”

also! trying to change who you are in the pursuit of romantic love will never work long term because you cannot deny your own existence forever.

I should be able to both read for 8hrs a night and sleep for 8hrs a night. That I cannot is very rude and, frankly, poor design.

Me after reading the most profane, toe curling, mind blowing smut known to man in the middle of class because I was bored

Simon never heard his father say sorry, or please, or thank-you, or I love you.

In their house, when his mama would put down hot, heavy casseroles, her skin damp with sweat, eyes darting for some sweet words, his father never said one word of thanks, let alone 'some'. Only waved his thick, impatient hand.

His father never took the plates to the sink. Never noticed when she stayed up at night to sort the screws by size and purpose—organizing the chaos he left behind just to find one damn hammer.

His father never said ‘please can you—’ only grunted with that bitter mouth, glared with those unkind eyes when he needed something.

Simon never heard him say I love you. And he couldn’t believe his eyes the day his father plucked out his baby brother from his mama's arm, and didn’t spare one glance for his Ma. She didn't deserved that, did she? Her weak frail body, cracked murmuring lips — she should be celebrated with adoration, comfort, love.

Love, and an infinite of it.

His father never sat beside her just to drink tea. Never told her about his day. Never asked about hers — what she did, or liked, or wanted. Never reached out his thumb, however calloused it was, to wipe away the sprout on her chin. That he was grateful she's next to him, that he loved her.

So when life happened, and Simon was left to pick up his pieces and place them in a way he wanted to be—he thought whomever he will be, anything, but his father.

Anything but him.

And then life happened again but this time it arranged itself in beautiful ways. Because you came with it this time. You and all your silly lovely ways, you who kissed your knee before resting your chin, you who cheered up catching up with fridge' light switching off, you so beautiful, so kind, made up of sundust. His sunshine — lighting up his world.

And God, he was so, so grateful. Every moment, every day !

“I love you,” he’d say the moment he wakes up next to you. Pressing his love on your lips, on your shoulder, on your neck.

“I love you,” when you spill milk in the morning daze and stare at it like it might disappear.

“I love you,” when he wipes your chin and kisses your forehead.

“I love you,” when he takes your hand in his and rubs it between his palm, why ? Because he'll spend his whole life keeping your hands warm than anything else.

“I love you.” because he loves, loves, and loves you so much that it hurts, so much that it heals, so much that it's everything sweet ever happened to him.

“I love you.” for all the ways his father failed, and Simon too, as a son, as a brother — failed to save his mama and lil' brother. I love you, because in loving you he is allowing himself to be loved.

Masterlist